The world turns and the stars cross the celestial sphere. We move from summer to fall, winter to spring, a spiral of repeating patterns that improvise a bit each time, riffing like jazz. We learn, we know, year after year, certain things are certain, but still we're surprised, off-kilter and unprepared. The cold comes and we're caught without a coat. Or the turning leaves belie sultry heat, subcontinental Indian summer. The wheel turns, the years spiral. We dance close and distant, dosey doe, ever returning, ever changing.